


The Second

by Thorins_mistress



Category: Man in the Iron Mask (1998)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-12
Updated: 2014-09-12
Packaged: 2017-12-10 04:23:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/781733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thorins_mistress/pseuds/Thorins_mistress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a tradition in the Musketeers: the second-in-command shares the Captain's bed. The story of d'Artagnan's growing up in the Musketeers from a young man to the Captain. COMPLETE.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Second

**Author's Note:**

> This story is fanfiction for the "The Man in the Iron Mask" (movie) (and a little bit from “The Three Musketeers” Disney movie, but only plot points; I totally see Jeremy Irons, Gabriel Byrne, etc, here), and there are certain scenes that are lifted from the movie.
> 
> Disclaimer: Nope, not mine. I have a nickel and three Cadbury creme eggs.
> 
>  
> 
> This has been a WIP on my Google drive for over three years. Hopefully someone enjoys it. Not beta-read, because I don't know anyone that would beta for a fic for a movie that is 15 years old. Originally I was going to separate this out into three chapters, but now it is all together in one. Please enjoy!
> 
> \---- indicates time change  
> **** indicates setting change

c.1635

When d'Artagnan first joined the Musketeers, it soon became obvious to all the men that he would be the next commander.  Aramis was a good leader of men, and loyal, but d'Artagnan nearly bled the black of the Musketeer's uniform. He had wanted to be a Musketeer all his life, even after the death of his father, and it showed in his devotion.

 

D'Artagnan learned from Athos, Porthos, and Aramis all sorts of duties required of a Musketeer. He spent long hours training with Athos and carousing with Porthos. Very rarely did Aramis insert himself into the training or the carousing, and he did not seem to care what d'Artagnan did with his hours as long as he was able to defend the king. However, d’Artagnan’s most contemplative moments were with Aramis. This was not unexpected by anyone: though a Musketeer, Aramis's faith was a large part of his person, and d'Artagnan's devotion dovetailed nicely.

 

"How did you become the commander of the Musketeers?" he asked one day, sitting in Aramis's sparse rooms. Slightly larger than the billets of the men, it afforded a little privacy for their intense conversations.

 

"I had been in the uniform a long while, and when the previous commander took me as his second in command, that began my training."

 

"And what sort of additional training was involved?"

 

Aramis's breath huffed. "The differences are mainly to do with politics and paperwork."

 

"Aramis, you are being deliberately evasive. Why won't you answer my questions? You know that I want to be in the Musketeers as long as possible, I want to serve as your second, and I'm much younger than you are."

 

"Rub salt in the wound, thank you." Aramis paused, and lifted a hand when d'Artagnan began to speak. "I loved the captain; his name was Damien." D'Artagnan's head whipped around quickly to stare at Aramis. "You are surprised. Have you never wondered why you have rarely seen me with a woman?"

 

"I assumed it was because you had trained to be a priest."

 

"That was only partially the reason; I like women, but not on a permanent basis. The other was Damien. We enjoyed each other's company and when I was elevated in the command hierarchy as his second, a relationship between us developed." Aramis paused again. "Take a breath, d'Artagnan. You are turning white."

 

As he stared at the floor d'Artagnan immediately followed the instruction and his fingers began to knot the edges of his uniform together. "I do not know what to say. You did not see it as a sin?" Not looking up, he was startled to hear Aramis's broad laughter, a sound he didn't remember hearing for _years_ , if ever.

 

"I believe in love, d'Artagnan, and taking it where you can get it. We live a hard life, defending the life of the king and his family. You know this, you spend enough time with Porthos." D'Artagnan nodded, still not looking at Aramis. "Should I not have told you? You need not fear that I'm going to drag you into my bed unwilling, d'Artagnan."

 

D'Artagnan finally looked up. "What do you mean?"

 

Aramis sighed. "It is somewhat _traditional_ for the second-in-command, on occasion, to share the bed of the captain. I was in love with Damien so it was no hardship for me to do so. And until now, Athos and Porthos have been acting as my seconds; there has been no formal successor to the command. While we may occasionally share a woman or two, neither Athos nor Porthos has shared my bed. Damien retired nearly fifteen years ago, and died not long after."

 

D'Artagnan shook his head. "Why are you telling me this? I, I don't…. I don't understand."

 

"D'Artagnan, I just wanted you to be aware in case one of the men made a comment to you. As I said, it is somewhat traditional, but not required. You and I spend much of our time together, so I would not be surprised if already rumors were floating around with the men and I just wanted you to know…."

 

Aramis's words were cut off as d'Artagnan swiftly moved to capture his lips in a kiss. For a few moments, Aramis let d'Artagnan lead as he felt d'Artagnan's fingers slide into his hair. Aramis pushed himself closer to d'Artagnan and felt himself begin to fumble for the fastenings on the other man’s uniform. The fingers slid out of his hair, massaging his scalp as they did so, and began fumbling for his own uniform buttons. They separated for a swift moment, only long enough for Aramis to say, "Are you sure?"

 

d'Artagnan's answer was to fly at him again, gripping a large handful of his uniform and pulling Aramis to him. Aramis now understood from d'Artagnan's questions that he had wanted this but had not been willing to ask, and probably had little experience. Adolescent fumbling with boys in hay lofts before coming to Paris to join the Musketeers; it was unlikely, though not unheard of, for such acts to occur in the barracks. Most of the men appreciated at least a modicum of privacy outside a brothel and there was little of that here. Aramis avoided the younger man’s mouth, and attached his lips just below d'Artagnan's jawbone and sucked.

 

D'Artagnan's head fell back, and Aramis moved as far down his neck as he could, given the layers of uniform, stock, and shirt, licking as he went. "Off. Take it off," d'Artagnan murmured.

 

They quickly separated again and they both began to pull off layers of clothing.  Both men had shucked their boots when they had come into the room, leaving them both in woolen socks. With uniforms, stocks, and shirts removed, both lunged at each other bare-chested, trying to get as close to each other as physically possible, though neither man had yet removed their breeches. As their lips met this time, their tongues battled until d'Artagnan's retreated a little and Aramis's tongue thrust into his mouth.

 

When Aramis grew tired of exploring d'Artagnan's mouth, he pulled away slightly and placed his lips over the pulse point at d'Artagnan's collarbone. D'Artagnan moaned, so low Aramis could barely hear, and said, "I've wanted this forever. Since the first moment I saw you and didn't know what I was feeling."

 

Aramis took this as encouragement, continuing to suck at the pulse point as one of his hands reached to touch D'Artagnan's nipple, circling around it and tweaking it when it peaked. D'Artagnan gasped. "Do that again."

 

"I can do better," Aramis murmured, and moved from his collarbone to the nipple he had just tweaked, sucking it into his mouth and swirling around it with his tongue. Feeling that d’Artagnan could take a little more stimulation, he gently pulled the nipple between his teeth and bit down slightly. Still standing, Aramis could feel d'Artagnan's cock growing by the second, straining against the laces of his breeches. His own cock was a mirror image, steadily growing harder and becoming more uncomfortable.

 

D’Artagnan began to whine softly, speaking no words beyond Aramis’s name. Aramis abandoned the first nipple and moved to the second, giving it the same treatment. His hands moved to the laces of d’Artagnan’s breeches, quickly untying them and pushing the fabric down d’Artagnan’s legs. D’Artagnan’s cock bobbed free of the confining wool, and Aramis reached between them to grasp the length in his hand. It took a few strokes, but d’Artagnan began to buck and gasp, and Aramis slowed his hand.

 

Falling gracefully to his knees, Aramis circled d’Artagnan’s cock with both his hands and moved forward to blow hot air over the tip. D’Artagnan bucked again, hips writhing, and drew his fingers through Aramis’s hair. He pulled Aramis’s mouth onto his cock and keened low in his throat at the feel of the wet heat. D’Artagnan’s fingers gripped Aramis’s hair in his fist, pulling Aramis closer to him and trying to get him to take more of D’Artagnan’s cock into his mouth.

 

Aramis’s tongue traced the vein on the underside of d’Artagnan’s cock, fluttering along it as he sucked and gently rolled the younger man’s balls in his hand. He began to draw the full length of it into his mouth and felt the crown hit the back of his throat, along with a string of come. Aramis hummed and d’Artagnan keened again, bucking into Aramis’s mouth, and came.

 

D’Artagnan collapsed to his knees, grasping Aramis’s shoulders and pressing his forehead against Aramis’s. “I have never...never felt anything like that. I didn’t know.... I didn’t know it could be so good.”

 

“There is more, if you want it.” Aramis said.

 

D’Artagnan’s eyes flitted shut. “Yes. More.”

 

“Come with me.” Aramis took his hand and led him to the small chamber that he used as a bedroom. As they went, D’Artagnan stepped out of his breeches and Aramis did the same, his hard cock a contrast to D’Artagnan’s softening one. At the threshold, Aramis took a moment to kiss the other man again, this time more slowly, though the intensity stayed the same. “I want you,” he murmured. “I want to bury myself in you and never leave.”

 

D’Artagnan froze, and Aramis immediately noticed. “You’re not ready for that.” D’Artagnan still didn’t move. “But you liked the kissing? And the other?”

 

D’Artagnan nodded. “I...I thought I wanted....”

 

Aramis shook his head. “It’s fine. Understandable, even. However...” he gripped his cock firmly. “Would you be able to help me with my problem here? Just a hand would be a help. I have some oil next to the bed.”

 

Aramis moved over to the bed, shucking most of the linens onto the floor and made himself comfortable. He waited silently for d’Artagnan and said, “It is nicer, more... intimate to share this with another person. Please, d’Artagnan.”

 

He nodded, and moved to the bed. “Yes, I want to.” His hand moved to cover Aramis’s, slick with oil. The sensation was fantastic, bizarre, and alien. The feeling of the soft skin of Aramis’s hard penis within his hand rejuvenated his own cock and d’Artagnan started to harden again. Swiftly, Aramis moved so they were kissing again, and their cocks stood side-by-side. Kneeling on the bed, together they slid their hands up and down the shafts. Between kisses, they each made small huffs of noise as the stroking continued. Soon Aramis’s head fell back, breaking the kiss, and his eyes closed and his lips parted. He began to shudder through his orgasm, and that set d’Artagnan off, moaning Aramis’s name again.

 

They collapsed against the headboard in a sweaty mess, the bed in total disarray. D’Artagnan began to move. “Don’t,” said Aramis, reaching out and grasping the younger man’s upper arm. “Stay.”

 

“Everyone will know if I stay.”

 

“Everyone will know if you come out of my quarters looking utterly debauched.”

 

****

 

“So d’Artagnan, is there something you want to tell us?” Porthos asked one afternoon, as he watched Athos and d’Artagnan practice swordfighting and “evasive maneuvers.”

 

“Whatever could I want to tell the two of you that you don’t already know? I’m with you all the time.”

 

“Except when you’re with the Captain.” As Porthos watched, Athos moved swiftly, spun around d’Artagnan and smacked his ass with the flat side of his sword.

 

“I heard a rumor, d’Artagnan,” Athos said.

 

The only notice d’Artagnan gave was that one eyebrow rose. “Really? I would think, after all these years in the Musketeers, you would put less stock in rumor.”

 

“Only when the rumor is wrong,” said Porthos.

 

“Well since you haven’t told me what this one is yet, I can’t tell you if it is right or wrong,” said d’Artagnan.

 

“It’s the one where you and Aramis are fucking and you’ve been tapped as the new second-in-command, to become the next captain when he retires.”

 

Rather than answer Athos, d’Artagnan took up his sword again, pushing Athos back into the fight.

 

“We’re not...fucking.”

 

“Why not? He’s hung like a donkey, and is a rather considerate lover, from what I have heard,” said Porthos.

 

“He _is_ a considerate lover, though the donkey part is a portion of the problem.” D’Artagnan said. “I like women. I enjoy wenching.”

 

“And? So? But? Therefore?”

 

D’Artagnan was so distracted by the conversation that Athos got another touch in with his sword, just below the knee. “I can’t be what he needs.”

 

Athos sighed. “What he needs is someone to help him take his mind off his command and his faith all the time. And sometimes a man just needs a good fuck.”

 

“Which I, or he, could get from a woman just as easily.”

 

“Not likely,” snorted Porthos.

 

D’Artagnan’s head turned to stare at him, and Athos hit him again with the flat of his sword. “You are not paying attention.”

 

“I am being distracted!”

 

“Stop being distracted. Focus. On both tasks.”

 

“Fine!” He took up his stance again, facing Athos and his damnable sword. “What do you mean?”

 

“Women are difficult. Just ask Athos.”

 

“Porthos, shut up.”

 

“Well neither of you have slept with Aramis,” d’Artagnan said shortly.

 

“We’re not what he _needs_ ,” Athos spat d’Artagnan’s words back at him. “How many women have you been with since you came to Paris?”

 

“A dozen, maybe. And not all tavern wenches, but you know the rules about court ladies.”

 

“Even so, did you consider opening your heart to any of them like you have to us?”

 

D’Artagnan pulled his dagger and began to use that and his sword together to counter Athos’s thrusts. “Of course not. You are comrades-in-arms.”

 

Porthos threw his head back and said, “Exactly!”

 

“What do you mean, ‘Exactly!’? You make no sense, Porthos.”

 

“He means, you idiot, that Aramis will give you exactly what you need, nothing more and nothing less, and will never ask anything of you that you would not be willing to give, and you will never be able to find that with a woman because women are demanding and deceiving,” said Athos.

 

“But Athos is not bitter or anything like that,” said Porthos.

 

“Porthos? Shut up.”

 

***

“Aramis?”

 

Aramis sighed, finished his prayer, and stood up from his place in front of the cross. “Yes, d’Artagnan?”

 

“I am sorry. I did not....” He paused. “I did not mean to hurt you.”

 

“You didn’t hurt me, D’Artagnan. I’m not a silly girl.” Aramis moved to sit at his small table, reaching for a bottle of wine and some glasses he kept at the sideboard. He poured himself and D’Artagnan each a glass at the other man’s nod.

 

D’Artagnan took a large gulp of the wine and then stared into the glass. “Still, I should not have...I should have.... I am sorry.”

 

“Yes, you said that. D’Artagnan, there is nothing to be sorry for. I have no expectations of you, except as a Musketeer. You are a good man, an excellent Musketeer, and a fine friend.”

 

“May I stay?”

 

Aramis looked at him for a few moments before saying, “If that is what you want.”

 

“I do want you Aramis. I like being with you, spending time with you, learning from you. I just don’t think I’m ready for fucking yet.”

 

Aramis nodded. “That’s fine. Though, can I get to you to reconsider, since you could fuck me instead?”

 

D’Artagnan looked at him with wide blue-gray eyes. “Are you serious?”

 

“Would I have brought it up if I wasn’t serious? D’Artagnan, I’m not a tease. I like sex - all kinds of sex, including with men. I don’t have to be on top all the time. Hell, what do they teach in Gascony?”

 

D’Artagnan snorted. “I thought you said you weren’t a tease.”

 

“I’m not. I’m teasing you. There’s a difference. You take too much to heart, d’Artagnan,” Aramis said. “I am supposed to be the serious one.”

 

\-----

c. 1638

 

Aramis was startled from sleep by an insistent, heavy knocking on his door. While not unusual, it was certainly out of the ordinary, as he had just come off duty not four hours earlier and there had been no sign of an impending emergency. He didn’t bother to find a candle, just felt his way to the door to open it. A few candles in the hallway were lit, as well as the fire in the hearth in his quarters, and both provided just enough light to make out the features of the man in front of him.

 

“D’Artagnan? What’s wrong? You look terrible.”

 

“Please, Aramis, may I come in? I think I have done something unbelievably stupid.”

 

Aramis said nothing, but moved from the doorway and beckoned the other man in with a sweep of his arm. He closed the door and bolted it. “What happened? You’re drunk. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you drunk.”

 

“Oh, Aramis. I have never felt the need to be drunk before now.” D’Artagnan paused as he collapsed into a chair at the table. “I slept with the queen.”

 

Aramis’s mouth opened to reply, but no words came out. The closest he got was a “Glugh?”

 

D’Artagnan rested his head in his hands, muffling his words as he said, “I know; it was stupid and impetuous and....” He trailed off for a moment and looked at Aramis.  “Treasonous. I don’t know what to do now.”

 

Aramis moved to sit at the table as well, taking the bottle of wine off the nearby sideboard and downing a large mouthful straight out of the bottle. “You aren’t going to do anything. If you say anything, you will not be the only one executed for treason. You will continue to do your duty as a Musketeer.” He took another drink from the bottle. “I will ensure you have _no_ contact with the queen. Ever.” He paused, then gripped D’Artagnan’s chin in his hand, making sure D’Artagnan was looking at him. “Whatever possessed you? All your fine words about court ladies, and then you sleep with _the queen_? Are you mad?”

 

D’Artagnan stared into his face, lit only by the fire in the hearth. “I don’t know, Aramis. I don’t know....” He put his hands over his face and let out a sob, but only one. “She is so unhappy, and she said some kind words to me, and I to her, and all of the sudden....”

 

“No, do not.” Aramis put his fingers against D’Artagnan’s lips. “I do not, can not know any details; bad enough that I know what I do. I do not want to have to betray you, D’Artagnan, but I take all of my oaths very seriously.”

 

“I understand.” D’Artagnan minutely turned his body so that he faced away from Aramis and stared into the blackness of the room. “May I...may I stay? With you?”

 

Aramis was very quiet for a long time. D’Artagnan was internally readying himself to leave as Aramis said, “Yes.” The silence was long again, until he said, “It will be a long while before I can trust you again, D’Artagnan. As a man _and_ as a Musketeer. That you could be so callous with so many lives besides your own concerns me greatly.”

 

“I know, I was stupid.”

 

“D’Artagnan, this act goes so far beyond stupid, I cannot even describe it. If not for the scandal it would create, I would beat you bloody, let Athos and Porthos beat you bloody, and then kick you out of the Musketeers.” Aramis watched as D’Artagnan’s shoulders slumped further than Aramis thought possible, his head deeply bowed as if in prayer. Aramis let out a small breath. “I’m not going to do that. I am going to turn you over to Athos and Porthos though for some extreme training. You choose whether or not to tell them why. I’m not going to sleep with you until I can trust you again, but it would look odd after all this time to send you back to the barracks. Strip to your underclothes and get into bed. If you get sick, since you are so drunk, do so in the chamberpot, or you’re cleaning it up in the morning.”

 

Aramis positioned himself on the bed facing away from D’Artagnan. He felt the younger man slip into the bed and under the linens, and could feel his desperation to be close. Aramis curled himself up as small as he could in the bed and ignored D’Artagnan altogether.

 

The next morning, Aramis was up at dawn despite his midnight surprise, and sent for Athos and Porthos. Both men had been on night duty and had just finished their shift. D’Artagnan was still asleep and Aramis did not want to have the conversation overheard, so the three men went for a walk around Musketeer headquarters. They spoke in voices too soft to be heard by anyone near them, and Aramis said only that he was angry with something D’Artagnan had done. “I don’t care where you take him or what you do with him, I just need him out of my sight for awhile. He is acting like a stupid boy. _Please_.” He paused. “I’m too angry right now to help him grow up.”

 

Athos and Porthos looked at each other. “Of course, Aramis. Whatever you want, it shall be done,” said Athos. He put his hand on Aramis’s shoulder. “What is wrong, old friend?”

 

Aramis shook his head. “It is not my story to tell. Just know that D’Artagnan could be in big trouble, and needs to learn that not everything is a game. Especially being a Musketeer.”

 

Porthos nodded. “We’ll take him out of Paris for awhile, out to the country. My friend, will you be alright here without a second or any unofficial seconds? Not that I am expecting trouble, but....”

 

“It will be fine, Porthos. Just take him and go. Drop him in a nice cold river if you can.” Aramis walked away, leaving Porthos and Athos staring at each other.

 

“What in the name of all that’s holy did he do?” Porthos asked. “I didn’t think he was that stupid, but apparently something has gone very wrong.”

 

“I couldn’t hazard a guess. Let’s grab him and go before Aramis gets back to his rooms. I’d hate to see the scene if D’Artagnan is still there when he comes back.”

 

Together they were able to drag the still drunk D’Artagnan to his feet and get him somewhat dressed. While they contemplated tying him into the saddle, they eventually came to the conclusion that they would simply attach a lead to his horse and let him slump in his seat. Although tempted to drop him in a river as Aramis had instructed, the two man thought that punishment would be better met when the younger man was fully cognizant.

 

The farmhouse was owned by a woman who knew Porthos somehow (and Athos was not going to ask), and they had the entire second story to themselves. Porthos and Athos dragged D’Artagnan up the stairs and dropped him into a bed in one room; they took up residence in the other and began to make themselves comfortable. Having come from being on duty, they fell into the bed to nap while they waited for D’Artagnan to awaken.

 

Hours later, closer to evening than midday, they heard D’Artagnan’s pained moans as he began to wake up; years of being constantly on call for the king had made them light sleepers. Porthos nudged Athos in the ribs. “You go talk to him. I’ll beat the snot out of him later.”

 

“Fine.” Having only removed his uniform coat and boots in order to nap, Athos quickly dressed and went to D’Artagnan’s room. “Hello, D’Artagnan!” he bellowed. He was rewarded by the sight of D’Artagnan falling out of bed and the sound of his moaning as he hit the floor.

 

Athos moved to pick him up off the floor and deposited the younger man on the bed, then sat beside him as D’Artagnan screwed his eyes shut. “You, young man, are in big trouble.” D’Artagnan slowly moved to lie on his side and opened his eyes in the smallest slit possible to look at Athos. “I don’t know what you did. Aramis didn’t tell me or Porthos. All he said was that we needed to get you out of the city for a long while because you were acting like a stupid boy and needed to grow up.” D’Artagnan let his head fall into the pillow and groaned again, in pain and humiliation.

 

“At this point, I think a hangover is the least of your problems.” Athos clapped a hand on the younger man’s shoulder and said, “Get dressed and come downstairs. Now.”

 

Athos closed the door behind him with the loudest slam he could muster and then proceeded down the stairs. As he waited for d’Artagnan, he realized that the younger man’s error, if not treason, must have been close to it for Aramis to have been so concerned and so angry at the same time. And that fact drove Athos’s blood to the boil. The three men had worked with the young pup for years, and it was time for him to become an adult.

 

Shortly Athos heard d’Artagnan’s slow steps down the stairs. He met the younger man in the kitchen with a large mug of tea. “Drink it. You will need it.”

 

“Athos, I...”

 

“Don’t. Speak. Drink the tea. There will be plenty of time for talking later. We are going to be here awhile. First, however, I’m going to kick your ass.”

 

D’Artagnan’s eyes screwed shut. “Fuck.”

 

“Nope, none of that here. Finish your tea and come outside. Bring your sword.”

 

Athos grabbed the rapier from his belongings next to the table and headed out the door to the large open space at the front of the dwelling. The rapier was his favorite weapon, and Athos was so good with it that d’Artagnan always had a hard time against it, no matter his own blade. D’Artagnan took a deep breath, downed the last of the tea in his mug, and grabbed his own sword. Though he disliked it, he picked the heavier, longer Musketeer sword rather than the rapier. It gave him a better reach that meant he could stay farther away from Athos and still fight. “Though the hangover will negate any advantage,” he said to himself, sighing.

 

***

From the way Athos fought, no one would have realized that he had a good 15 years on D’Artagnan. Not only was he drawing blood with his touches from the rapier, but hardly any sweat beaded on his brow, even after hours of combat practice. D’Artagnan, on the other hand, had looked ready to drop after only an hour, and had not been able to catch Athos with his sword at all. After about four hours of drilling, Athos called a halt and let D’Artagnan collapse in the grass.

 

“Just so you know, we’re going to be doing this every day. For _hours_ at a time. Trading off between Porthos and myself. You’re going to be so tired you won’t be able to get into trouble. And maybe you will think twice the next time about doing whatever _stupid_ thing you did to get Aramis pissed off at you,” Athos said.

 

D’Artagnan was so winded he couldn’t reply or even lift his face from the sea of green grass to look at Athos.

 

“And we haven’t decided how long we’re going to be here. Aramis gave no time limit - just that he couldn’t look at you right now. You need to think for a long time on how to apologize to him. Out of us all, he’s the nice one.”

 

\------

c.1640

 

Athos and Porthos kept him in the country for near two months. It took nearly a year after that for Aramis to forgive d’Artagnan and allow the younger man back in his bed and to return to his “normal” life as a Musketeer. D’Artagnan got the jobs no one else wanted to do, and was constantly out of Paris with members of the royal family - whether or not they necessarily were “entitled” to Musketeer protection.

 

When the exile was over, in public it was as if nothing had happened, as Athos, Porthos, _and_ Aramis never mentioned it again. D’Artagnan took back up the duties as Aramis’s second. Inside d’Artagnan’s soul, however, he knew that the damage wrought between him and Aramis would probably never be fully healed.

 

\------

c.1645

 

“Athos?”

 

“D’Artagnan?”

 

“Have you noticed something...different about Aramis lately?”

 

The two men were finally off duty and having a drink at the local Musketeer establishment, having been constantly on call for the past few weeks due to the scrambling of duty schedules. A number of the men had been ill, and Aramis had been gone into the countryside for nearly a week on a task for one of the royal family. The request had come not long after the death of the old king. Aramis had gone alone and had been withdrawn since, at least to D’Artagnan.

 

“Different?” Athos set his glass of wine down on the table and stared at D’Artagnan. “You know, since you mention it, he has seemed preoccupied since he returned. Has he said anything to you about his trip?”

 

D’Artagnan shook his head. “No. Not even where he went.” His shoulders slumped and his neck scrunched up into his shoulders. “At least it is not just me,” he mumbled into his glass.

 

“What?”

 

With a sigh the younger man said, “At least it is not just me. I wanted to hope that he wasn’t still holding a grudge against me for my stupidity.”

 

“D’Artagnan.” Athos reached across the table and cuffed him on the arm. “It has been nearly ten years. I can’t image Aramis holding a grudge that long, no matter what you did. Or even if he did, he would be sure to tell you that was the reason.” Athos sat back in his chair and lifted the glass back to his lips.

 

D’Artagnan badly wanted to smack the smirk off Athos’s face, and decided he would do better to go back to his quarters. Draining his glass, he stood up and dropped a few coins on the table. “I will see you later on.” Athos simply nodded as he motioned to a barmaid to bring him another drink.

 

Making his way back to Musketeer headquarters was easy as the bar was only next door, but D’Artagnan walked slowly, concerned with the reception he would receive from Aramis. Aramis always contended that his quarters were D’Artagnan’s quarters as well, but this did not stop D’Artagnan from knocking lightly before entering. He was not surprised to see Aramis kneeling before the cross, his head bowed in prayer.

 

D’Artagnan went through his ablutions as quickly and quietly as possible to avoid disturbing Aramis. His friend had spent many hours at prayer since his return from the country, and, as he had mentioned to Athos, the aura of his preoccupation hung over him like a dark cloud. If D’Artagnan wasn’t mistaken, Aramis had even lost some weight: weight he could hardly afford to lose.

 

It was not until Aramis stood up from the cross, D’Artagnan having waited for what seemed like hours - dozing in the straight-back chair at the table - that he addressed the older man. “What is going on with you, Aramis? Something is wrong. Please, let me help. Or, if you don’t trust me, please talk to Porthos or Athos. Are you ill?”

 

Aramis lightly scoffed and closed his eyes as he answered, though he did not sit with D’Artagnan. “No, I am not ill. At least, not physically.”

 

“Not physically?”

 

Aramis’s eyes opened, revealing red-rimmed orbs with cloudy irises, a sure sign to D’Artagnan of Aramis’s weariness and sorrow. “I can’t talk about it, D’Artagnan. It is a burden I must bear by myself. I am sorry that it has become so noticeable.”

 

“That is not what worries me, Aramis. You take too much on yourself.”

 

Aramis closed his eyes again. “God’s justice will be done, D’Artagnan.”

 

D’Artagnan did not know how to reply to this, and he stayed silent.

 

“Go to bed, my friend. I am going to pray some more.”

 

D’Artagnan sighed but followed Aramis’s instructions.  Aramis must have been asked to do something that gnawed at his soul, but his oaths (to God? to the king?) prevented him for seeking any sort of absolution. And nothing D’Artagnan would say would sway him to speak of the oath or the actions surrounding it.

 

********

It took nearly a year after his discussion with Athos for d’Artagnan truly shared a bed with Aramis again. Whatever the guilt that gnawed at Aramis’s insides continued to do so and nothing his friends said or did could cajole him away from his demons.

 

Aramis had always been the more dominant in their sexual relationship. It had not taken long for d’Artagnan to enjoy both fucking and being fucked. The first time had been somewhat ... difficult, though he knew what to expect and Aramis had thoroughly prepared him with some of the finest oil to be obtained in Paris. But d’Artagnan, however much he enjoyed it, was always reluctant to be the initiator between them, no matter which role he took.

 

In those months after Aramis had come back from the country on that mysterious errand for the king, d’Artagnan had had to become more insistent in contact between them. Aramis reciprocated once prompted, but nothing seemed to reach his eyes. They were cold, dead. Not dead like a person that had died, but rather a field that had been trampled by a passing army. Something lived their once, and might again in the future, but at that moment it had been laid waste.

 

They had both come off a week of solid duty to the royal family and were to be off for three days. D’Artagnan had decided that to time to act was at that moment.

 

“Aramis, we need to talk,” d’Artagnan said as the two men reached the Captain’s quarters they shared.

 

Aramis looked at him askance as he opened the door. “The topic, d’Artagnan?”

 

“Life. And your relationship to it,” d’Artagnan replied, closing the door and heading straight for a bottle of wine on a side table.

 

Aramis sighed. “D’Artagnan, you can’t help me –“

 

“Not if you don’t let me! You’re hurting. No, I don’t know the reason – because you won’t tell me – but if you keep letting your hurt bleed out, you are going to die. You are too thin. You take pleasure in nothing. Not even prayer soothes you. Perhaps you need secular human contact rather than religious doctrine!” D’Artagnan poured himself a full glass of wine as he spoke downed it in one gulp, and refilled it. “This … whatever we have together … it is important on a personal and professional level. If I can’t actually help the cause of your sorrow, at least let me be a balm for your soul for a little while. The men are noticing, Aramis. They all respect you too much to say anything, but you are the Captain, for goodness sake. What affects you affects them.”

 

“And you, d’Artagnan? How is this affecting you?” Aramis gestured to d’Artagnan to pour him a goblet of wine. He lightly sipped at his cup and perched on the edge of a chair at the side table as if he was a guest in his own rooms.

 

“I miss my friend,” said d’Artagnan.

 

“Life is not always about us.”

 

“Aramis!” D’Artagnan stopped, closed his eyes, and pressed hard at the space on his forehead just between his eyes. “You asked. You _asked_ how this was affecting me; you cannot then say that my words are unimportant. That is unfair.”

 

While d’Artagnan did not think Aramis could look any more abashed, his eye did widen a trifle and he took a deep breath. “You are right, my apologies.”

 

“It has been more than a year since whatever happened occurred. I am not saying you should forget, or forgive yourself if that is what is necessary. However, you might contemplate that your forgiveness will not come from an internal source, but rather an external one. And perhaps you should concentrate on making yourself a person – externally at least – worthy of forgiveness.” Aramis began shaking his head. D’Artagnan took one of his hands in his. “I know not what you did or think you did, but this,” he pointed to the alter, “is not working!”

 

“Nothing I could do could make myself worthy of forgiveness.

 

D’Artagnan signed. “In your eyes. You do not know how your actions have been perceived by others, even God, Aramis.” He poured himself a third glass of wine, though not to the brim as the previous two.

 

“I shan’t bring it up again. Every time I have tried to touch you, you move away. You push me away. We can’t continue like this, or I shall go mad.”

 

Aramis looked even more hurt by that statement, his shoulders slumping even further, and he reached again for his wine goblet. “I am sorry, d’Artagnan. I swear I had no idea that my pain was causing others to suffer so.”

 

Aramis’s fingers twitched. D’Artagnan recognized the action: Aramis wanted the feel of his rosary within his fingers. Instead, d’Artagnan threaded his wingers through Aramis’s, gripping them tightly. “You aren’t alone, Aramis. Even if you can’t tell me what is bothering you, you aren’t alone.”

 

After some long moments of silence, Aramis pulled d’Artagnan as close as possible, given the small table between them. “I want you, d’Artagnan.” D’Artagnan refrained, barely, from whooping with joy at the fact that _something_ seemed to have gotten through to Aramis. Aramis drew d’Artagnan’s fingers close until he laid a soft kiss upon them. D’Artagnan moved to caress his cheek, feeling the thick stubble of many days’ worth of beard against his fingertips, almost like petting a cat. Aramis’s head began to tip back and his eyes slipped shut, in obvious bliss.

 

They stayed like that, the width of a table between them, for some moments before Aramis murmured, “We should move to the bed.”

 

It had been too long since d’Artagnan had heard that tone in his lover’s voice, low and sultry and inviting. It made his cock jump in anticipation. He needed Aramis to take control of the encounter, and the man did not disappoint. He pulled d’Artagnan to his feet and guided him to the bed, pushing him to sit. As d’Artagnan began to fumble with buttons and hooks, Aramis’s large hands covered his, and he shook his head. D’Artagnan stopped and watched the other man as Aramis stepped back and began to efficiently strip. It wasn’t until he was completely naked that he came back to the bed and began slowly undressing d’Artagnan. Beginning with the boots, Aramis peeled off each layer of clothing until d’Artagnan was as naked as he. Between the removal of each garment Aramis had stroked and caressed d’Artagnan all over, from the soles of his feet to his abdomen to his shoulder blades. But the touches were light and fleeting, never staying in one spot for more than a moment.

 

D’Artagnan made a noise between a growl and a moan. “Aramis, please, I need to feel you.”

 

Aramis began to satisfy his please with a long, lingering kiss while one hand cupped the back of d’Artagnan’s head. The other hand moved down d’Artagnan’s naked back and he used it to pull d’Artagnan closer so the younger man was almost in his lap. They broke the kiss only to come up for air and immediately began again, though this time Aramis pushed his tongue into d’Artagnan’s mouth, exploring the crevices. D’Artagnan began to make quiet, whimpering noises and Aramis could feel d’Artagnan’s cock harden against his thigh.

 

He moved his hand away from d’Artagnan’s back and began to circle his nipple with a fingertip. D’Artagnan broke the kiss again, gasping for air at the touch. Aramis took the opportunity presented and began to lave the nipple with his tongue and gently worry it with his teeth. He heard a low moan from d’Artagnan as his reward. He freed the nipple from his mouth and blew on it, the cool air on the damp skill making it peak even more. D’Artagnan threw his head back against the headboard, his moan becoming a sharp whine.

 

Aramis moved to the other nipple and repeated the treatment as one of his hand caressed d’Artagnan’s chest and abdomen, leading to his cock. D’Artagnan’s head was still against the headboard as his hips canted up to meet Aramis’s hand.

 

“Aramis, please, don’t tease.”

 

“I’m not teasing, d’Artagnan.” One hand gently caressed d’Artagnan’s cock and balls, before moving further to tease his hole. “I’m not teasing,” Aramis repeated. “I’m going to suck you until you come, and then I’m going to fuck you until _I_ come.” He punctuated his words with increasingly harder strokes to d’Artagnan’s cock with one hand; his other groped under the bed for a vial of oil.

 

With the oil now close to hand Aramis could continue with his task. He quickly maneuvered himself between d’Artagnan’s legs, lining his body up perfect for whatever action he desired. Taking hold of the base of d’Artagnan’s cock with a farm grip, Aramis licked a stripe up it from base to tip, following the path of the pulsing vein. D’Artagnan grunted in pleasure and said, “More.”

 

Aramis began to lick and suck at the head of d’Artagnan’s cock, occasionally taking it all in his mouth before retreating again. He knew exactly what d’Artagnan liked: to be teased and on edge for as long as possible. However, it didn’t take d’Artagnan long to come; it had been weeks without anything more involved than his own hand.

 

Before d’Artagnan’s vision had come back into focus after his orgasm, Aramis was already covering his fingers with the oil and beginning to prepare him for a fuck. Aramis was good at preparation and seemed to know the exact right time to increase the number of fingers and where exactly the spot was that helped cause the most pleasure. D’Artagnan could do it too, but it did not come as easily to him.

 

“Aramis….” The name came out as a cross between a groan and a whine. “Please, I want to feel you.”

 

Aramis laughed and said, “Believe me, d’Artagnan, you’ll feel me no matter how many fingers I give you. But I don’t want to hurt you. You’ve taken two – one more and you’ll be ready.”

 

D’Artagnan’s groan turned back into a whine as Aramis withdrew his two fingers. His eyes were closed, and had been since the earlier orgasm. It heightened his other senses: he could hear Aramis spreading more oil onto his fingers, could smell the oil, and hear Aramis move on the sheets – d’Artagnan’s cock began to fill again.

 

“I must be doing something right,” Aramis said as he pushed three fingers into d’Artagnan. His other hand, which had previously been holding onto d’Artagnan’s hip, now moved back to his cock, caressing in long, soft strokes.

 

“Now, Aramis. Fuck me now.” D’Artagnan had to force himself to open his eyes and look at Aramis. “Like this. I want to look at you.”

 

“Are you going to be able to keep your eyes open?” Aramis laughed, and maneuvered himself so he could kiss d’Artagnan. “Are you sure? You know it is less painful the other way.”

 

“I need to see your face. I want you to take me, I want to feel the burn in my legs tomorrow.

 

“Your legs aren’t the only place you’ll feel it,” Aramis said as he moved himself closer to d’Artagnan. Aramis helped him place his ankles as close to Aramis’s shoulders as possible. Then he lined up his cock and pushed into d’Artagnan is one slow, steady thrust. D’Artagnan’s eyelids fluttered shut as Aramis’s balls met his ass and he whined in pleasure.

 

“I told you that you wouldn’t be able to keep your eyes open,” Aramis said. D’Artagnan’s eyes did not have to be open for him to hear the other man’s smirk. Aramis pulled out of d’Artagnan’s body slowly, the quickly canted his hips up to thrust back in quickly.

 

“So good…” d’Artagnan murmured. He opened his eyes again and said, “More.”

 

After so many years, Aramis knew exactly how to play d’Artagnan’s body, and he pulled all of his tricks out to please his lover. By the time they finished, d’Artagnan had had another orgasm and had nearly blacked out. Aramis’s orgasm had shortly followed, though it was somewhat less intense. Moving d’Artagnan’s legs off his chest, Aramis took a moment to look at him. The younger man was blissed out due to the sex, but the worry on his face remained.

 

Aramis had to admit to himself that he still felt that forgiveness could never be his, and he wanted to pray – no matter the hypocrisy of doing so. “I will do better at not letting my personal issues cloud our work.”

 

D’Artagnan signed. “I don’t want to talk about it right now. I’m going to sleep. We’ve been on duty a week straight, Aramis. You should sleep too.” With that, d’Artagnan rolled to his side, facing away from Aramis and curled into himself for sleep.

 

Aramis got out of the bed and blew out of the candles that had been lit when they entered the apartment. This left only the low light of the fireplace, but he did not need it to get to his destination. Kneeling at the small altar, he left his guilt at putting the young boy, Philippe, into the iron mask lessen minutely. Damn d’Artagnan for always being right. He did need to set a better example if he was to remain the leader of the Musketeers.

 

Even facing away from Aramis, d’Artagnan could hear the man kneel at the altar. He sighed silently to himself. Damn Aramis for making him feel like a whore. Nothing he said made a whit of difference, and for the first time, d’Artagnan felt that he had been wronged by his mentor.

 

D’Artagnan was no longer that brash young man that had come to Paris with the world at his feet. Between his…incident with the queen, his relationship with Aramis, his Musketeer training, and the intricacies of age, he found himself wearied by the whole situation. He pushed his anger away from his consciousness as much as possible and forced himself to sleep.

 

***

In the weeks that followed, d’Artagnan took more of the responsibilities for the running of the Musketeers onto himself. He ensconced himself in an office just far enough away from Aramis’s so they would not generally see each other. D’Artagnan counseled the younger Musketeers, but stayed away from his three friends. While he felt somewhat guilty for it, knowing that Aramis was battling his own demons, he could not help his feelings. He felt there was nothing else he could do for Aramis besides what he had already done.

 

Between Aramis’s withdrawal from what seemed to be the whole world and d’Artagnan’s avoidance of his friends, the Musketeers’ headquarters became a very cold place. When d’Artagnan was not on duty and wasn’t required to be in headquarters, he spent much of his time away with whores friendly to Musketeers, though he favored no one girl in particular. It took Athos and Porthos months to get both men to speak to each other again in something other than polite, casual conversation. Even more time passed before d’Artagnan returned to Aramis’s quarters: for many months he had utilized his small office as sleeping space to continue his separation.

 

When pressed by Porthos and Athos, d’Artagnan could not fully articulate his anger. He supposed it was similar to the anger that he had inflicted on Aramis when he had confessed about the queen, so they were “equal” now. “I cannot tell you everything; some things between us are private. But as I once disappointed him, he has now disappointed me,” he said to them. He would not articulate his feelings of being treated like a whore by Aramis, of the older man using him only for personal pleasure, to anyone, even himself if he could help it. His own transgression had at least not been so personal against Aramis. They had never sworn monogamy to each other, and Aramis knew that d’Artagnan still liked wenching as much as the next Musketeer.

 

The younger Musketeers noticed the coldness between the Captain and his second, and a few were even bold enough to approach one or both men. These approaches often came with offers of sex, though both men declined: d’Artagnan because he visited whores instead and Aramis because it was easier to be celibate than face the problems he had about d’Artagnan.

 

In the end it become more about acceptance of the other man’s faults than any sense of forgiveness from either of them. D’Artagnan returned to Aramis’s quarters, but kept running a majority of Musketeer business. The camaraderie that had been there, however eroded and then built back up after d’Artagnan’s misstep, was gone.

 

\------

c.1657

 

He heard Queen Anne coming before he saw her.  “Your Majesty.” He bowed to her.

 

“Captain d’Artagnan. Congratulations on your promotion.”

 

“Thank you, my lady. I will protect your son and his family to the best of my ability.”

 

She nodded and looked down at her hands, clasped together at her waist. He followed her gaze and noticed the slight shaking of her hands. “Your Majesty?”

 

“You are well, Captain?”

 

“Yes, my lady.”

 

“Good. I am glad to hear it.” He could hear the skirts of her dress rustle before he saw her begin to move. “I know that you are the best Musketeer in the Corps. And will be one of the best Captains.”

 

And then she was away, followed by her maidservant. Even now, he would not have a moment with her alone. Perhaps Aramis had even put that stricture on her, as well as d’Artagnan. Aramis had been her priest for some years before his retirement.

 

\------

c.1660

 

D’Artagnan would never have thought that the day would come that Athos, Porthos, and Aramis would actually leave the Musketeers. He had been captain of the company for nearly three years before the thought actually registered that he didn’t have an official second-in-command. Then he remembered the “tradition” of the Musketeers and the second of the company.

 

It would not be a difficult choice for a second. Andre was an ideal officer, loyal to a fault and willing to learn. Of course, the uniform was blue rather than black now, but the idea behind the “one for all and all for one” still dominated, and the king’s life was still being protected. D’Artagnan wasn’t so blind, even at this point in his life, that he didn’t realize that Andre would fall into bed with him the moment d’Artagnan asked.

 

Of course, he asked himself whether he _wanted_ to ask. Crazy, of course. What man didn’t enjoy a good fuck, and it did inspire loyalty and fostered an extremely good relationship between the captain and his second. At least, once the relationship progressed to that point. It had taken d’Artagnan a few months before he truly accepted that Aramis was good for him, but once he did so, life as a Musketeer had become even more of a joy. Not that he didn’t enjoy the wenching - still did when he thought about it - but his good relationship with Aramis had bled over into everything and everyone in the Musketeers at the time. It provided a solid foundation for the entire company.

 

This new group of Musketeers was not as lucky. Turnover was high in the ranks due to the Civil Wars and the subsequent upheavals. Andre was one of a small handful of men that could even be considered as the second due to the massive turnover: he had simply been there the longest and completed the most training. He was also very nice to look at: a bonus in d’Artagnan’s eyes.

 

“Lieutenant? I need to speak with you, please.”

 

“Of course, Captain. Now?”

 

“Yes, please. Accompany me to my quarters.” Andre nodded and followed silently.

 

D’Artagnan had kept the room as sparse as Aramis had when he was the occupant. It was one of the few things that reminded him of Aramis that he had kept. “Sit, Andre.” The younger man did so, and suddenly d’Artagnan didn’t know how to broach the subject. “Andre, I am formalizing the command structure, and I want to make you my second-in-command.”

 

Andre’s eyes widened minutely as he nodded. “Oh. Thank you for the opportunity, Captain. I won’t fail you or give you any cause to doubt your choice.”

 

“I doubt that you could fail or disappoint me, Andre.” D’Artagnan paused. “You have been a Musketeer for five years?”

 

“Yes, Captain.”

 

D’Artagnan reached for the bottle of wine and glasses he kept on a sideboard close to the table, another holdover from Aramis.  “Andre, please call me d’Artagnan. Particularly when you are sitting in my quarters talking to me and about to drink my wine.”

 

“Yes...d’Artagnan.”

 

D’Artagnan had to steel himself from rolling his eyes in amusement. Had he ever been this young and eager to please? Even if his heart wanted to say no, his brain told him that he had been even worse. “You were here for the last two years of Captain Aramis’s command?”

 

“Yes. He is a good man; I liked him very much.”

 

“I was his second-in-command for almost twenty years. I will be able to tell you, in detail, all the bull and paperwork that you will have to deal with that I am going to delegate to you.”

 

Andre laughed. “I look forward to it, Cap...d’Artagnan.”

 

D’Artagnan took a deep breath before speaking again. “When I became the second, I was informed that one of the ‘traditions’ of the Musketeers was that the second occasionally shared the bed of the Captain.” He looked piercingly at Andre to gauge his reaction, but Andre’s expression didn’t change. “I shared Aramis’s bed for over fifteen years. We were...comfortable together. I also slept with a few women. I tell you this because, while the ranks are mostly made up of new Musketeers, I am sure some of them will know of the tradition, and you may have some comments made to you. I want you to know that I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

 

“I am not uncomfortable with the idea, D’Artagnan. Would you like me to share your bed?”

 

“What do you want? I am not immune to your charms, I will give you that, but I don’t know if you have a woman somewhere in Paris or out in the country that you would rather be with. And it is certainly _not_ a requirement that you share my bed.”

 

“Women are... complicated. I prefer men, sir.”

 

“Don’t call me sir while we are sitting in my quarters drinking and discussing sex, please.”

 

Andre laughed so hard he had to put his head between his knees to regain his breath. “I suppose you have a point.” He paused. “D’Artagnan, the _moment_ I walked into Musketeer headquarters and saw you for the first time, I wanted you.” To drive home the point, he stood up, inserted himself into D’Artagnan’s physical space by standing between his legs, and then lightly pressed his lips to the older man’s.

 

D’Artagnan let the younger man dictate the intensity of the kiss for a few moments, then moved his hands to cup the back of Andre’s head. Andre reciprocated by pushing his tongue into D’Artagnan’s mouth.They stayed like that for long moments, tongues battling for dominance.

 

D’Artagnan reveled in the feel of Andre being close to him. In the years since Aramis’s retirement, he had not been celibate, but preferred the experienced whores that plied their trade to the Musketeers almost exclusively. Andre, however, was completely different than those women. His earnestness made d’Artagnan’s heart beat quicker. While he had tended to not initiate the sexual contact between himself and Aramis, he could sense that he would have to be more forthcoming with Andre. If he had last five years without hinting to d’Artagnan that he wanted him…well, it would probably take awhile before that reaction changed.

 

They broke their kiss to breathe, both men taking shallow gasps of breath. “Strip,” said d’Artagnan. Andre’s hands immediately went to the musketeer uniform, undoing the buttons that kept the coat on his shoulders. He then sat back in his chair at the table to remove his boots, d’Artagnan doing the same. The many buttons on the interior coat were tackled next, with d’Artagnan’s fingers marginally more sure than Andre’s. D’Artagnan took a short moment to look at Andre’s uniform: he had hated it when the uniform color changed from black to blue and the interior coat to red. As Captain, his interior coat was blue and he liked it much more than the red. Red reminded him too much of blood.

 

When Andre lifted his hands to undo his cravat, d’Artagnan quickly moved to kiss him and still his fingers. Andre was left in his cravat, shirt, and breeches as d’Artagnan pulled him closer to the bed while still kissing him. D’Artagnan decided to dominate the kiss, pushing his tongue into Andre’s mouth and exploring it thoroughly. D’Artagnan pulled the shirt from Andre’s breeches and reached under the linen fabric to brush against one of Andre’s nipples. The younger man groaned and broke the kiss. “We are both still wearing too many clothes,” he said. Andre took a step sideways away from d’Artagnan and quickly divested himself of the cravat and shirt.

 

D’Artagnan watched Andre strip without moving himself, appreciating the show of the younger man’s body. The removal of his shirt allowed d’Artagnan the view of his lovely nipples, dusky pink and peaking. D’Artagnan could even make out a fine dusting of hair leading to his prick, still confined in his breeches.

 

D’Artagnan sat on the bed, still watching Andre rather than working to remove his own clothes. The light from the fireplace played over the flushed skin of his face and neck, giving it an ethereal glow. Andre surprised him by, instead of removing his breeches, turning to d’Artagnan and kneeling by the bed. Andre reached for the laces tying d’Artagnan’s breeches closed and began undoing them. It appeared that now that Andre had permission to touch him, he would not hesitate.

 

Pulling the fabric as far apart as possible, Andre reached into the breeches to help d’Artagnan’s cock spring free. Blinking quickly, d’Artagnan missed the look on Andre’s face at the first sight of his cock. He did not miss the appreciative moan, however. Andre moved his face closer to d’Artagnan’s groin, looking up at him through raised lashes. _He knows how to play the ingénue_ , d’Artagnan thought briefly before he left out a groan at the feeling of hot breath on his prick.

 

“You are comfortable with this?” d’Artagnan had to ask again. It was one thing for a whore to suck him off; entirely another for his second, especially if he didn’t want it.

 

“I want it,” Andre murmured. “Let me please you.”

 

D’Artagnan made a “go on” motion with his hands, and Andre began his work. It was quite the sight to look upon: Andre clad only in his breeches, kneeling before him and muzzling his face into d’Artagnan remained fully clothed. The younger man began by taking just the cockhead into his mouth, learning how much pressure d’Artagnan could take and mapping the folds of skin with his mouth. He was very good and d’Artagnan began to moan in pleasure, low and deep in his throat. Andre kept taking more of him in, and the deeper d’Artagnan’s cock went down his throat the higher and louder the moans became.

 

He tugged at Andre’s hair, gently and affectionately, to get him to let go of his mouthful. Andre did, with a loud ‘pop,’ and stared up at d’Artagnan with questions in his eyes. “I want to come inside you, not in your mouth.”

 

Andre’s eyes fluttered closed and he moaned at the thought. “Yes, please.”

 

D’Artagnan stood up from the bed in order to remove his clothes and Andre’s breeches. Reaching for the laces, Andre moaned again and his hips bucked to meet d’Artagnan’s hands. D’Artagnan untied the laces and pulled the cloth down Andre’s legs- strong thighs and calves leading to muscular ankles. He then gave the younger man a push to splay him out upon the bed before reaching for his own clothes and putting on a show for Andre.

 

Once he was naked, he reached under the bed to find the vial of oil he sometimes used on himself. It was a gift that he and Aramis continued to give to each other. He then settled himself between Andre’s legs, looking at the younger man’s face to ensure that Andre still wanted this, still wanted him. But he could see no uncertainty in Andre’s face, and so commenced giving him pleasure.

 

He moved up Andre’s body to kill him again, tasting a small remnant of himself on the younger man’s lips. Then he moved to his neck: finding the pulse point fluttering under his lips, he pursed his mouth and began to suck. Andre moaned and keened, the sound almost becoming a wail. When the spot was sufficiently bruised, d’Artagnan moved to one of his dusky nipples, already peaked with need and desire.

 

First d’Artagnan traced the peak with a fingertip, watching the nipple get even harder at the stimulation. It was easy then to use his fingernail to flick the nipple and he was rewarded with another whine from Andre. Rather than continue with his hands, d’Artagnan bent his head and closed his lips around the aroused nub and sucked. D’Artagnan could feel Andre’s cock growing ever harder against his thigh, while his own seemed to be growing even heavier. Andre’s head fell back on the pillows, his eyes clothed and his breath coming in short gasps. Laving the nipple with his tongue, d’Artagnan took a small risk and used his teeth to worry at the nub even more. Andre’s keening moans began again. “D’Artagnan, please,” he begged.

 

“Shhhh. I want you to enjoy this. Come if you can. I’ll be fucking you anyways.” The words seemed cold, but the tone was affectionate. As d’Artagnan let go of the first nipple to begin his torture on the other, Andre opened his eyes for a moment and saw the feeling in the other man’s eyes. Not love – affection, respect, and enjoyment. That was enough for now.

 

Ad d’Artagnan began to nibble and then bite at Andre’s other nipple, one of his hands caressed the younger man’s body, leading to Andre’s cock. The first true bite on the aroused nub was accompanied by a long stroke along Andre’s cock. He bit his lip to stifle his cries as he came, white ropes of come covering d’Artagnan’s hand as Andre’s hips bucked. He watched in awe as d’Artagnan licked his hand clean of Andre’s come.

 

Feeling extremely relaxed after his orgasm, Andre knew it would be easier for d’Artagnan to fuck him now. He felt pliant and happy, until he felt d’Artagnan’s hands trying to roll him onto his stomach. He immediately went stiff and said, “No. I want to see you.”

 

“Are you sure? You know it is easier on you the other way.”

 

“I want to see your face, d’Artagnan.”

 

D’Artagnan’s hands stilled at Andre’s hips and instead moved to pull his legs apart and up to near d’Artagnan’s waist. “Alright then,” he said. Instead of reaching for the oil vial as expected, however, d’Artagnan lifted Andre’s hips up ever further, taking his cock into his mouth for only a few seconds before moving to Andre’s balls. Like he had on Andre’s nipples, d’Artagnan laved the sack with his lips, tongue, and small bites from his teeth while Andre bucked and moaned. Before he was too stirred up, however, d’Artagnan abandoned his groin to turn his attention to Andre’s clenching hole. How Andre wished to feel d’Artagnan’s cock inside him! It was not to come immediately, however, as Andre felt an entirely unknown sensation. Air? And then something wide and wet invaded him, ever so slightly. _Oh God_. D’Artagnan was fucking him with his tongue! Between the earlier sucking and now this, Andre was fully hard again.

 

“D’Artagnan,” Andre stuttered. “What…are…you?”

 

It seemed to be long minutes before d’Artagnan replied. “Preparing you,” d’Artagnan said, after he pulled his tongue out of Andre’s ass.

 

“Usually done with oil, yes?” Andre’s voice was still breathless.

 

“Indeed, and I have some very good oil here,” he said, pushing Andre’s hips back down again, closer to his waist. D’Artagnan uncorked the vial and spread a good amount over two fingers. One was quickly thrust into Andre and it met no resistance. The second finger quickly joined the first and began to stretch and scissor the younger man.

 

Andre began a low keen that he didn’t seem able to stop. “I’m ready, d’Artagnan. Please….” The last word droned into a higher pitched whine when d’Artagnan added a third finger.

 

“You are now,” said d’Artagnan. He moved swiftly, bringing his cock to Andre’s hole. He took a swift moment to cover himself in oil, then began to push himself into the younger man.

 

Andre kept moaning. “Oh, yes…” he said, slurring the last word. D’Artagnan’s cock was thick and long and hot, and Andre felt as if he was being split in two. D’Artagnan paused when he hips met Andre’s, and Andre could feel d’Artagnan’s balls against his ass. “More, d’Artagnan. Faster.”

 

D’Artagnan began to oblige, quickly canting his hips to meet Andre’s. Andre thrust his hips back to meet d’Artagnan’s and their joining became even more frenzied. D’Artagnan was experienced enough to know how to push Andre and how to find and stimulate his pleasure spot with his cock. Taking Andre face-to-face had another advantage: it was easy to pull Andre to him and kiss him.

 

It had been a long while since d’Artagnan had been with a man. But there was nothing like having his erection in a hot, male ass. He was thoroughly enjoying the encounter. D’Artagnan slowed his thrusts, but kept them long and deep. Andre whined at him, trying to twist his hips to met d’Artagnan’s and shaking his head back and forth. “Please don’t tease.”

 

At that request, d’Artagnan not only quickened his thrusts but began to use his oiled hand to encircle Andre’s cock. “You’re beautiful when you come.” Andre felt himself flush, and not just with exertion and the excitement. “It feels like you’re close.” A sliding hand motion accompanied each word. “I’m going to come soon. Drive into your sweet, hot ass. You feel so good around me.”

 

Andre could the sweet from d’Artagnan’s face dripping onto his stomach and mingling with the precome being spread by the other man’s hands. He couldn’t seem to stop his keening, though no words were intelligible. He felt himself come before he mentally recognized it and clenched tightly on the cock in his ass.

 

D’Artagnan groaned in response and his hands moved to hold Andre’s hips still. With half a dozen thrusts Andre felt the other man stiff, and heard him grown. The next thing Andre felt was d’Artagnan’s come in his ass.

 

It took a few moments for d’Artagnan to become reoriented and pull out of Andre. Both men were breathing hard. D’Dartagnan moved to lay beside Andre on the bed. “Well,” he said. “That was lovely,” and he sighed.

 

Andre stiffened minutely at his side. Would d’Artagnan kick him out and send him back to the barracks? “Sleep, Andre. I’m not going to send you away.” Andre marveled at the sight of the older man curling up next to him, his face utterly relaxed in a post-orgasm, pre-sleep haze. No, d’Artagnan didn’t love him. But at this point, it didn’t matter.

 

\-----

1662 (movie time)

 

D’Artagnan had not seen Athos since the day he had “visited” the Musketeer quarters in his rage after the death of his son. It had been even longer since he had seen Porthos. Aramis, of course, he had seen recently at court. The King had called him to a special mission, one that d’Artagnan, even as the Captain of the guard, was not privy to.

 

Aramis gestured to them to join him at the small table in the center of the crypt. D’Artagnan did not enjoy the sneaking around in catacombs and crypts. Adding to his discomfort, Athos continually glared at him, and d’Artagnan could still see the anger in his eyes and the twitch of his fingers, desirous for a sword.

 

“When we were young men and we saw injustice, we fought it,” said Aramis.

 

“Now we know that some things cannot be solved with a sword,” barked d’Artagnan.

 

“And some can’t be settled without one,” said Athos. He glared at d’Artagnan across the table again before turning back to Aramis as his friend covered his hands with one of his own, sharing, however briefly, in his grief.

 

“Here is the problem. The Jesuits oppose Louis’s wars and the starvation that results. The King has ordered me to identify the Jesuit general. And to kill him.” Aramis stopped for a moment and took a small breath.

 

“You should let the Jesuit general worry about that,” Porthos said, unable to make discern Aramis’s point.

 

“Unfortunately, that is impossible as…I am he,” said Aramis. He paused and clarified, “I am the general of the secret order of Jesuits.”

 

“Aramis, what are you saying? You are committing treason!” said d’Artagnan.

 

“No, I just oppose the king in unorthodox ways.” Athos let out a bark of bitter laughter. “I have a plan, and idea that could change everything – for the better.”

 

Athos stared at him for a moment, the first light of something other than hatred for the king and grief for his son showing in his eyes. “What do you propose to do?” he asked.

 

“Replace the king.”

 

D’Artagnan shook his head. “I cannot hear this.”

 

“I need you,” Aramis said.

 

D’Artangan couldn’t speak, just shook his head as he closed his eyes.

 

“I need you,” Aramis repeated.

 

“I cannot betray my king! I swore an oath!” D’Artagnan said, his words echoing around the crypt.

 

“When a king is dishonorable you are removed from your oath,” Athos replied.

 

“An oath is an oath precisely because it _cannot_ be removed!”

 

“Why do you follow him, D’Artagnan? WHY?” Athos yelled at him. “You cannot tell me that you didn’t know that he would send my son back to war, to _die_ , in order that he could have the woman my son loved! The king is a dog! He is dishonorable! What we fought for is greater than king or rank or reward. What do you fight for?”

 

“For the belief that every man can be better.” D’Artagnan’s voice lowered as he said, “Even Louis.”

 

Athos turned to Aramis. “Whatever the plan, I am with you.” He then turned to D’Artagnan and said, “The next time we meet? One of us _will die_.”

 

Athos turned on his heel and left, followed closely by Porthos. D’Artagnan cupped his head in his hands as Aramis settled into the seat across from him.

 

“You should not have asked this of me. You should not have asked me to be a party to this plot.”

 

Aramis stared at D’Artagnan. “How could I not ask you? You slept with the boy’s mother, for God’s sake.”

 

“I swore an oath, Aramis. To protect him. To....” D’Artagnan’s speech broke into a small sob of breath. “You don’t understand.”

 

“I understand oaths. I am breaking one of my own. Make me understand this, why you feel the need to remain a party to Louis’ cruelty. You know what he is.”

 

D’Artagnan’s head shook and his tongue came out to wet his lips before he began to speak. “Do you remember _when_ I told you that I slept with the queen?” Aramis nodded. “She told me later that...that she thought the child was mine. So, you see why I have to protect him? Even if he does not know? Even if....”

 

“Even if he ever found out, he would kill you. And her.”

 

D’Artagnan sighed. “I know. I don’t want to work against you, Aramis, but it may come to pass. Between my oath to the king and possibly being his father.... I wanted you to know why.”

 

“Athos might try to kill you, you know,” said Aramis.

 

“I know that too. I don’t know how to make this situation better for him.”

 

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t tell him that Louis is your son.”

 

D’Artagnan gave a short huff of laughter, but it held no mirth. “No, I should think not.”

 

Aramis leaned closer to d’Artagnan and laid a light kiss on his lips. As he made the sign of the cross over d’Artagnan he said, “God go with you, friend. For none of us will.”

 

***

 

They were mad. This had been the plan? To replace Louis with – who? D’Artagnan watched from his spot by the window as Louis - it was obviously Louis, no matter the clothes - paced around the man who looked so like him.

 

“I was told this impostor was dead.”

 

“You knew? You knew there was a man of such resemblance?” d’Artagnan asked.

 

“He is my brother,” Louis said.

 

“Brother?” D’Artagnan breathed the question through his teeth. Suddenly the blue uniform felt heavier than it had ever been on his shoulders. What had he done? How had this come to pass?

 

“My twin. My blood. A fact that has kept him alive, until now.”

 

All three men turned as the bedroom doors swung open to reveal the Queen Mother. Anne. D’Artagnan was only slightly surprised when she went to the man still dressed as the king first rather than Louis.

 

“Philippe...” she breathed as she embraced him and their foreheads touched. Then she turned to Louis. “Louis. Please.”

 

He became enraged then and pushed her away into d’Artagnan’s arms. “You were a part of this too, Mother?!”

 

“He’s your brother. I love you both,” she said.

 

“And your love has meant _nothing_ to either of us,” he snarled.

 

Almost silently, Philippe said, “It has meant something to me.” That earned him a backhand across his face from Louis hard enough to throw him to the ground, as he was unprepared for it.

 

D’Artagnan jumped into action then, grabbing Louis so he couldn’t strike either Philippe or the Queen. “Your Majesty, listen to me. Never once have I asked anything for myself. I ask you now: spare the life of this man...this prisoner, your brother.”

 

Louis pushed away from him. “You have no right to ask me this!”

 

The best way to handle Louis was to make him understand that he held all the power and to try and make him see reason. But d’Artagnan could see his eyes burning with rage and hatred for all of them. It would not work, but he had to try anyway. d’Artagnan fell to one knee and bent his head, taking a deep breath before he spoke again.

 

“Your Majesty, every day of your life I have watched over you. I have _bled_ for you. I have prayed every day to see you become greater than your office, better than the law. Please show me what my faith and my blood have purchased. Show mercy.”

 

“And you take the side of traitors?! Of this one, worst of all my own brother who tried to do this to me!” Louis screamed at them.

 

“And what have you done to him?” It was useless. He got back to his feet and looked right into Louis’s icy, lifeless, pitiless eyes. “For one moment...I thought you had become the king I always hoped you’d be.”

 

And then, listening to Philippe beg for death rather than further imprisonment, in front of his mother as she began to weep, d’Artagnan’s heart sank even further looking at Louis. There was no mercy in him. Not even the satisfaction of making his brother and the Captain of the Musketeers beg for it, nor his own mother’s tears would move him.

 

“D’Artagnan, you will hunt down Porthos, Athos, and Aramis, and bring me their heads, or I will have yours.” Louis paused and walked over to Philippe. “And as for you, my brother, back to the prison you shall go and into the mask you hate!”

 

D’Artagnan barely heard Anne plead with Louis before he screamed, “Wear it until you love it! And die in it.”

 

And that was the end of the conversation. Anne excused herself immediately, but not before looking at d’Artagnan with eyes that begged to share a private word with him. Louis went into another room of the suite, but not before engaging several men who had been just outside the doors to strip Philippe of his kingly finery and haul him out of the room.

 

And d’Artagnan was left alone. His thoughts muddled over the fact that there had been two boys, not just one. Philippe was his son just as much as Louis. And Louis was cruel and hateful. Where had Philippe been for all these years? And Anne had known. She had to have known.

 

He buried his head in his hands and took several deep breaths to try to center himself. When he finally had done so, he walked out of the suite and to a small niche where he spied the maidservant of the queen, always noticeable in her black clothes. He heard Anne pacing, her heels impacting the marble floor.

 

As he drew near to them, he said, “Anne.” She came to him and put her hands in his. “There were two? Not one, but two?”

 

“I couldn’t tell you. You had enough to bear.”

 

“Anne.” He sighed. “I would not have.... I would have done things differently, had I known. Where has he been?”

 

“When he was young, he lived in the country with a servant woman and a priest. They saw no one. But when Louis came to the throne...he had Philippe put into the mask. But I swear, I thought he was dead until only recently.”

 

D’Artagnan stared at her. “ _Louis_ ordered him into the mask?”

 

“Yes, the old king knew he existed, but did not acknowledge him as a prince. He did not want the kingdom torn apart.” She paused. “The family was torn apart instead.”

 

“A Musketeer must have done the duty of putting Philippe into the mask, surely?”

 

Anne turned her face away from d’Artagnan and nodded.

 

“It was Aramis, wasn’t it?”

 

She nodded again, and said, “You must not be angry with him, d’Artagnan. He had no choice, and I have given him my forgiveness, even if God will not.”

 

He shook his head, trying to integrate all that he had learned this evening into his thoughts. “Anne, I have loved you, always. No matter what happens, I pray you remember that.”

 

Their kiss was interrupted by the sound of a scream. The only other woman in this part of the palace was Louis’s mistress, Christine. After the scene earlier at the ball, d’Artagnan was not surprised to see the rope tied around the window’s wooden casement frame and the letter for her sister.

 

Showing Louis the body should have been difficult. D’Artagnan wanted to hurt him, so it wasn’t. But Louis was only annoyed, not hurt or struck by any sense of grief.

 

It was Andre who took the king the key to Philippe’s mask - after the guards of the Bastille put him back into it - but Andre told d’Artagnan first.

 

“Andre. You must be the liaison with the king right now. He is...angry with me, to say the least. Follow his orders, and remember your oath as a Musketeer.”

 

“I will Captain. Please, be careful.” d’Artagnan could tell that Andre wanted to say more, but ended in simply squeezing his forearm in a show of camaraderie.

 

His soul armed with Anne’s shocking news, d’Artagnan forced himself to remember how to get to the crypt where he had met with Aramis, Porthos, and Athos. He had to let the men know what had happened to Philippe after the scene at the river.

 

He penned the note quickly, informing them of Philippe’s location in the lower dungeon of the Bastille and the guard change at midnight and their subsequent delay. He paused only briefly before ending his missive with “All for one and one for all” and signing his name.

 

After leaving the note at the crypt and retrieving his black Musketeer uniform, d’Artagnan realized he had very little time to get to the Bastille. Hopefully his friends had received his message, but even if they had not, he could not allow… _his son…_ (by God, those words sounded strange in his head) to come to harm within the prison. However, he first had to return to the palace to see Anne one last time. He left a red rose for her near her private chapel on the palace grounds and mentally prepared himself for the evening to come. He did love her, in his own way, though his heart ached at the knowledge that there had been two boys. And his ideas and ideals of kingly loyalty and fatherly devotion (however masked) had gotten jumbled in his head while applied to Louis.

 

His thoughts were interrupted when he saw her leave the chapel. Even after the passage of so many years, she was still a lovely, beautiful woman. Worthy of loving. He closed his eyes for just a moment, then saluted her before turning his horse to leave the palace grounds.

 

D’Artagnan did not look behind him as he left. He did not see Andre watching him, having to make the split-second decision to inform the king of d’Artagnan’s leaving the grounds after the confrontation at the masque.

 

D’Artagnan had ordered Andre to follow Louis’s orders, and those had been to follow d’Artagnan. Andre had lost track of him after their earlier conversation, but quickly ran to the palace to inform the king of d’Artagnan’s departure. Though he had no further intelligence on d’Artagnan’s movements, the younger man thought this would satisfy the king.

 

Andre was shocked, therefore, when Louis deduced d’Artagnan was going to the Bastille to release the prisoner. “Prepare a squadron of Musketeers, immediately, to ride with me to the Bastille. I will send instructions for a company of infantry to join us as soon as possible, given their location immediately outside the city. We depart in ten minutes.”

 

Andre’s shock did not stop him from carrying out Louis’s orders, but those orders made him extremely uneasy. He remembered what d’Artagnan had said about Athos: “if he has become our enemy, we should ask why.” If the current Captain of the Musketeer guard – d’Artagnan of all people, who bled Musketeer blue instead of blood! – was an enemy…. Andre’s head swam with denials and worries for his Captain.

 

***

 

D’Artagnan made his way to the Bastille quickly, having been to the prison a number of times on official business. The king had set more men onto the prison, and Philippe would not be able to escape via the official routes. He held onto the hope as he descended the stairs to the dungeons that the task had been completed, and his friends and... _his son_ were already gone. Those hopes were dashed as he came through the gate and four swords blocked his forward motion. He gasped at the impact of one sword against his breast, and then felt his heart ache when he realized that _Aramis_ had been the one holding it.

 

“The courtyard is blocked.” They hadn’t been fast enough. And d’Artagnan was shocked at the iron mask obscuring Philippe’s face. It was heavy and harsh and inhuman. He hated it.

 

“He lies. He’s here to trap us,” Athos said, still suspicious. That hurt d’Artagnan as well.

 

“See for yourselves. I’m not lying.” He could hear Porthos going back up the stairs, Athos moving behind him, and Aramis still held the sword to his neck. Instead of looking at Aramis, d’Artagnan stared at Philippe. “I am sorry. All that you have suffered, I would gladly have borne it myself to keep it from you.” At his words, Philippe allowed his sword to drop slightly away.

 

The sound of Porthos’s boots on the stairs were louder coming down. “D’Artagnan is right, the courtyard is filling with soldiers.”

 

D’Artagnan thought quickly, remembering the other exit at the east gate. “Follow me,” he ordered, taking off at a run.

 

The others followed, and did not stop until they all reached a heavy wooden door. “Don’t stop until you reach the river.”

 

Putting a hand on d’Artagnan’s forearm, Aramis said, “d’Artagnan, if we go this way, they will know you helped us.” _The king will know, and you will die_ , his eyes said, staring into d’Artagnan’s.

 

D’Artagnan shook his head. “It doesn’t matter now. Go.” His heart ached at the thought that he would never see his _son_ , this young man still encased in the mask, again. But hopefully he would be able to tell Anne that Philippe was safe.

 

However, it was not to be. As the door opened, the sound of galloping horses became louder, and Louis, accompanied by a squadron of Musketeers, entered the secondary courtyard. D’Artagnan could not even spare the short moment to look at Andre, leading the squadron. They could Louis yelling the order, “Fire!” But none of the shots hit them, and indeed, seemed to be far away from them until the door began to close behind the group.

 

“Follow me, there is another exit.” Unfortunately, that exit was blocked as well, this time by a unit of infantry swarming the hallway. The soldiers rushed the door, and working quickly, the four Musketeers were able to close, lock, and block it.

 

“Trapped,” said Athos. It was true enough. While they were located in a small alcove off a corridor, on the other side of the door they could hear another troop of soldiers arrive.

 

“There are no other exits,” d’Artagnan said.

 

“We are going to have to fight,” said Aramis.

 

They arranged themselves at the end of the corridor doffing their hats and preparing their pistols. Each man doffed his hat, and Athos pushed Philippe out the line of fire, though gently.

 

Louis entered, flanked by Andre, and d’Artagnan could tell that his anger was nearly blinding him, white hot and searing. His orders came as a yell, “Charge them.”

 

It was d’Artagnan who thought of the young Musketeers he was still training. “Spare their lives, if you can,” he said to Athos, Porthos, and Aramis. He watched as the three men changed the trajectory of their pistols before firing. The four young men leading the “charge” all fell immediately, though d’Artagnan knew immediately that none of the wounds were fatal.

 

Rather than take the time to reload the pistols, all four men dropped them where they stood before unsheathing their swords. It quickly became clear that the younger Musketeers were inexperienced still, and thought the older men to be less of a challenge, but none wanted to take on d’Artagnan. Even as they fought, d’Artagnan could hear Louis yelling at Andre, saying, “Cowards! Twenty men run from four!” Though he could not hear Andre’s answer, he assumed the younger man was informing him of all the reasons this corridor had been chosen.

 

In the next charge, d’Artagnan divided his attention between his own Musketeer opponent (weak, he would have to discuss this with Andre if they all got out of this mess), Andre’s fighting with Athos, and another Musketeer trying to fight Philippe. His own fight was abandoned when he saw Athos go at Andre with a near-killing strike, pulling Athos away at the last moment. Then both d’Artagnan and Athos were brought to attention by a shot from Louis’s pistol at Philippe’s head and the arrival of a second Musketeer squadron. Athos and Aramis grabbed Philippe, and all five men retreated back to the small niche even as they heard Louis yell, “Charge them!” again.

 

There they all stood, trying to catch their breath. Even here, however, d’Artagnan was separate, _other_ , away from his friends and from Philippe. It was only made worse as Louis started speaking from the other end of the corridor. Louis’s voice dripped contempt, not only for Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, but for d’Artagnan as well.

 

“D’Artagnan!” Louis’s voice resonated throughout the whole space. “I am not angry with you. I knew you would lead me to them and so you have! Lay down your sword, and I will not punish you. I will let you retire in peace. And I will give your friends a swift execution… _if you surrender now!_ ” This last was bellowed by Louis, and echoed all around the chamber.

 

Between breaths Aramis said, “Perhaps you should take his offer.” He paused, and d’Artagnan felt his heart twist. “We’re dead anyway.”

 

“He is right, d’Artagnan,” said Porthos.

 

And then Philippe’s offer to exchange himself to Louis for their lives broke him. Even more so than his pleading for death at the palace, to hear the young man say they had done their best ( _had he really? d’Artagnan asked himself_ ) and beg them to spare themselves forced d’Artagnan to reply. “No. I cannot do it. Even if I could give up…my king, I could never give up…my son.”

 

Philippe startled, and d’Artagnan saw the eyes of his oldest friends widen in surprise. Except for Aramis, of course. And then Philippe said, very softly, “Son?”

 

And then he had to confess all. “I loved your mother. I love her still. You are my son.” With a breath, he continued, “I never knew you existed. I swear to you. I did not understand the pride that a father could feel for his son.” Here his voice broke as he looked at the floor, not daring to look at Athos. How could he compare his suffering to his friend’s? But he could feel Athos’s anger at the situation.

 

The banging of a battering ram at the door in the alcove interrupted the quiet, contemplative moment. They could also hear the noise of another troop of Musketeers arriving to Louis’s location. It was going to be a slaughter. D’Artagnan could see it happening as clearly as he could see his friends in front of him now. These young man that he had trained – how he had betrayed them all by leading them for a corrupt, evil king.

 

“D’Artagnan?” Aramis’s voice brought him up from his musings. “They’re young Musketeers. They’ve been weaned on our...legends,” Aramis said.

 

“Yes, why don’t we charge them?” added Porthos.

 

D’Artagnan shook his head. “I trained these men. They will fight to the death.” He paused. He realized he would do anything to protect the young man at his side – _his son_ – even if it meant his own death. “But if we must die, _if we must die_ , let it be like this.” He pulled the sword from his side and, point down, accepted the challenge before them. “I am so sorry. I did not realize I had been followed.” He paused again, glancing at Philippe. “I did not realize many things.”

 

Aramis watched d’Artagnan’s face as they each accepted the challenge with their swords, even Philippe. The burden on d’Artagnan’s soul at the secret that had denied him his children, had torn him away from Anne, and had impacted his relationships with his friends was naked on his face. Aramis looked at Athos quickly: the older man’s face showed his forgiveness, but it appeared he would not show it to d’Artagnan yet. While he would always grieve for his son, Athos did not hold his death against d’Artagnan. A glance at Porthos showed that the malaise of uselessness had well and truly gone. Porthos, though willing to die for a cause, no longer _wanted_ to die.

 

“One for all, and all for one,” Athos said.

 

They each pulled their swords back to their sides and readied themselves. Even Philippe had no fear in his eyes. Taking a breath, they moved as one into the corridor, charging the Musketeers with a yell that came from deep inside each of them.

 

D’Artagnan’s eyes rested not on the evil Louis, but on Andre. His lover, his friend, the man he had mentored into becoming a great Musketeer. He could hear Louis giving orders, and then the sound of the guns, the smoke, and the acrid smell of gunpowder obscured all. He could not stop, however, and nor would the men beside him. Through his death his soul would be redeemed, and hopefully Philippe would forgive him.

 

As the noise of the guns halted, the five men did as well, waiting for the smoke to clear. When it did so, they stared at the young Musketeers as they breathed deep. Amazingly, none of them had been hit by the gunfire. Looking at the faces of the ranks of Musketeers, d’Artagnan realized that they had saved their lives, and in doing so had disobeyed their king.

 

D’Artagnan smiled to himself as Andre came forward and saluted them. Then men began to nearly fall over themselves to follow him. D’Artagnan could feel Aramis’s gaze upon him, and he could almost see the older man’s smirk. He could admit, at least to himself, that he hadn’t expected it. He would have to discuss that with Andre after this conflict.

 

Louis came forward out of the crowd of Musketeers then. D’Artagnan recognized the same anger he had seen in Louis at the palace after the masque and near kidnapping. He glared at Andre briefly before turning his gaze back to the men surrounding Philippe. Philippe, even from inside the mask, seemed calmer at the forecoming confrontation with his brother.

 

Quickly, Louis pulled a small dagger and lunged toward Philippe. This d’Artagnan could not permit, and he grabbed Louis by the shoulder and threw him against the wall of the prison. No one intervened, and all could see Louis’s anger begin to boil over. He lunged a second time, but d’Artagnan moved swiftly and placed himself between Philippe and the knife.

 

The breath pushed out of him by the knife strike, d’Artagnan immediately fell to his knees. Gasping for air, he was supported by Athos and Aramis, with Porthos grabbing his right hand. He hard Aramis say his name, but the voice sounded so far away.

 

Philippe immediately retaliated against Louis, trying to coke the life out of him with his bare hands. Even as Louis struggled and Philippe nearly succeeded, no one came to the aid of the king. However, even with his mortal wound, d’Artagnan found the ability to speak and save Louis. “Philippe. He is...your brother.”

 

He heard Andre’s voice whisper, “Brother?” Andre’s head moved back and forth to stare first at d’Artagnan and then to Louis and Philippe, still gripping Louis’s throat in his hands. He breathed the word “brother” almost silently. Taking a deep breath, he said, “Outside, all of you, get out!” to the other Musketeers. “You are sworn to silence.”

 

“Forgive me,” Athos murmured. “I should not have pushed you. I should....”

 

D’Artagnan silenced him with a small breath of air. “Shh.”

 

“Get this off me!” Philippe yelled, trying to tug the mask off his face.

 

Aramis quickly moved to Louis and pulled the key from the chain around his neck. He then set to unlocking the padlock that held the mask in place. When it was removed, he moved back to d’Artagnan’s side and began murmuring the last rites to him.

 

D’Artagnan gasped for breath as Philippe held his hand. “All my life, this, this is the death I have always wanted. All for one, one f....”

 

As Aramis finished the last rites over D’Artagnan’s body and Philippe cradled him in his arms, Athos and Porthos watched as Andre strode to Louis, trying to stand up from where he had fallen. They were shocked to see Andre pull his sword on Louis, nestling it at the crook of his neck.

 

“All my life, all I ever wanted to be, was _him_.” Andre stared at Aramis and Athos as he said, “Well, what are we going to do with him?” His sword stayed in place at Louis’s neck.

 

Athos quickly answered, “What we planned to do originally. Porthos, strip him. Philippe, get undressed.”

 

***

Athos, Porthos, and Aramis dragged Andre, the new Captain of the Musketeers, into the drinking establishment closest to Musketeer headquarters after the funeral. It was one they all knew well and had been frequented by Musketeers for what seemed like _forever_ , and promised a private spot for them to drown their sorrows in drink.

 

“All I ever wanted to be was him.” Andre said, gripping his mug of ale so tightly his knuckles were white. “It’s not fair. He shouldn’t be dead.”

 

“No, he shouldn’t be dead. That dog, Louis. I’d like to kill him myself,” said Athos.

 

“You know that D’Artagnan wouldn’t want you to do that. I doubt he’d want him imprisoned, either, but we can’t help that. At least Philippe is now king.” As he whispered the last words, Aramis sighed and leaned back in his chair. “He was the best of us all.”

 

“All for one, and one for all,” said Porthos.

 

The others all repeated it back as they touched their mugs together in a salute to their fallen comrade.

 

After a long pause while they all contemplated their drinks, Andre broke the silence. “Did you know?” Andre asked.

 

“Know what?” said Aramis.

 

“About the queen. And D’Artagnan.”

 

“I did not know the king was his son until recently. D’Artagnan confessed to me that they had slept together, and I was on duty the night that she gave birth to the twins, though I did not put the two together.” He paused. “I was also the one Louis sent to put Philippe in the mask.” Andre’s gasp seemed to fill the tiny room they currently occupied. “Yes, I have my owns sins to confess and ask forgiveness for.”

 

“Did you mind?”

 

Aramis blinked. “Mind? Him sleeping with the queen? Once I got over the shock and the fact that he could have been executed? No. D’Artagnan’s heart was large and he was able to love us both.”

 

“I slept with him, too,” said Andre.

 

Aramis caught the looks on the faces of Athos and Porthos. He shook his head slightly. “I know that he cared for you. D’Artagnan was not really meant for wenching or fucking. He held people close to his heart, both friends and lovers.”

 

“That was when you had us take D’Artagnan out to the country and get him away for awhile, wasn’t it, old friend?” Athos asked.

 

“Yes. I wasn’t lying about the shock and my anger. It wasn’t because he slept with someone else. It was that it was treason, and we all could have been caught up in the ensuing trap.”

 

“I miss him already and it hurts. I’m not ready for him to be gone. Dead.” Andre put his head down on the table and then wrapped his arms around it.

 

Aramis let him stay like that a few moments, then rose from his chair. “Andre, let’s leave Porthos and Athos to their drinks and you come back to my quarters. I am sure you don’t want to go back to the barracks or to the captain’s quarters.”

 

Muffled by the table, they heard, “Definitely not.” Andre then lifted his head and said, “Lead the way.”

 

Andre wasn’t surprised at all by the similarities between Aramis’s small flat and the captain’s quarters that he’d shared with d’Artagnan for just over two years. The impact of Aramis on d’Artagnan’s personality had always been evident to Andre. There were just enough differences, however, that he didn’t lose himself in grief the moment Aramis pushed him through the doorway.

 

“Please,” Andre dragged the word out as he held Aramis’s arm and stared at him. “Please, I need to feel something besides this overwhelming grief.”

 

“Oh Andre. You were in love with him.”

 

Andre nodded. “From the moment I met him. All I ever wanted was to be like him, and for him to be proud of me, and if possible, love me.”

 

“Of course he loved you - I already told you that he held his friends and his lovers close to his heart. And he made you his second, so he was definitely proud of you.” Aramis cupped Andre’s cheek in his hand. “And you are a good man, a good friend, and a good Musketeer.” He took hold of Andre’s forearm and pulled him in the direction of the bedroom. “Come. Let’s drown our sorrows in loving rather than in alcohol. D’Artagnan would approve.”

 

Andre immediately shrugged the heavy blue cloth of his outer coat off his shoulders and fumbled at the buttons on his waistcoat. Pulling that off, he moved backward to lean against the wall and pulled at one boot, then the other.

 

Aramis mirrored his actions, though his coat was black rather than the light blue. He stopped Andre from taking off his shirt or breeches, saying softly, “Slow down.” Andre made a small noise of distress and Aramis said, “Let me take care of you.”

 

Aramis pulled Andre to him and moved them to his bed. Sitting the younger man on the edge, he looked down at him in sympathy. He joined him on the bed and moved close enough to kiss Andre. He kept his touch light at first, not knowing just what reaction he would receive, but Andre’s hands kept pulling Aramis closer.

 

“I don’t want slow. I don’t….” Andre’s stumbled over his words. “I don’t want to feel anything,” he finally said. “It hurts too much.”

 

Aramis’s hands reached to caress Andre’s face. “I know it hurts. But it is not better to feel nothing. Even the harshest pain lets us know we are still alive.” He paused. “D’Artagnan taught me that.”

 

Andre looked at him then, really looked, assessing every part of Aramis’s face. Whatever his decision making process, the one he came to appeared to be acceptance as he nearly lunged across the bed to meet Aramis’s body. Andre’s fingers fumbled at Aramis’s laces, just enough to look clumsy but not enough to slow him down in his objective. “Too many clothes,” he murmured. “Want you to touch me.” Andre reached for the laces on his own breeches, untying them and shimmying out of the garment. “I want you to fuck me,” he said as he stripped off his shirt.

 

Aramis nodded. “I will.” He gripped Andre’s head in his hands and pulled the younger man to him. Aramis’s thumbs rubbed lightly along Andre’s lips before one pushed past them and invaded Andre’s mouth. Andre answered with a slight moan, using his tongue on Aramis’s thumb as he wished to lick and suck on the older man’s cock.

 

Aramis pushed Andre onto his back. He lay splayed out to Aramis’s eyes, a visual feast. Aramis quickly pulled off his shirt and slid his breeches off his legs. He maneuvered himself between Andre’s thighs, lifting his limbs so his cock fit snuggly into the crack of Andre’s ass. Aramis bent over Andre’s body and kissed him. He invaded Andre’s mouth with his thumb again, saying, “Get it slick.”

 

Andre let out a whine as he did as bidden, sucking Aramis’s thumb into his mouth and covering it with his saliva. He slowed down and made the action more lascivious, treating the thumb as he would a prick. The whine turned into a keening moan as Aramis slid his prick between his ass-cheeks. Andre reluctantly released the thumb from his mouth and immediately felt its invasion at his hole. His eyes fluttered closed as he felt the stretch: while obviously not as long as a finger, there was something decidedly wicked about the feel of the thumb inside him with the fingers remained outside. “More, Aramis. I want to feel you in me.”

 

Aramis said nothing, instead reaching with his free hand for a vial of oil he had previously put within the bedclothes without Andre noticing. Again using his free hand, he easily popped the cork and poured the oil over his fingers and Andre’s hole, all without removing his thumb. Andre’s moans increased in volume as Aramis made soothing noises in response.

 

Andre felt Aramis’s hand moving to invade him with a finger and stretching him further. It was glorious. It was the first feeling he had allowed himself since witnessing d’Artagnan’s death at the Bastille, and he felt the moan in his mouth become a sob. Aramis moved his non-oiled hand to Andre’s forehead, moving the hair of the way of his eyes. “Don’t cry, dear one. Just feel the pleasure. That is how we are going to remember him.” They stretched toward each other, lips meeting and tongues exploring. Shortly after, Andre felt another finger stretching him, and his gasped into Aramis’s mouth when the other man found his pleasure spot.

 

“Feels so good. Please, take me, fill me, please.”

 

Aramis nodded, again saying nothing. Andre keened lowly at the feeling of emptiness when Aramis removed his fingers. The other man maneuvered his legs into a better position and then poured the oil over his prick. Andre began to feel the familiar burn as Aramis pressed into him, but it wasn’t at all painful.

 

Aramis kept a continuous but slow pressure as he moved into Andre. He felt his balls bump against the flushed skin of the younger man, and stopped so Andre could get used to the feeling of being full.

 

Andre’s keening grew louder until he finally was able to say, “Move, Aramis.” Aramis began to do so, using his leverage to nearly pull all the way out before thrusting back in again. Andre’s noises changed to groans as he tipped his head back in pleasure. After several long, steady strokes, Aramis began to experiment with the angle of his thrusts, trying to hit Andre’s pleasure spot with his cock. A long whine of “Aramis!” was the indicator he needed, and he began moving faster into Andre’s body.

 

It was no longer time for kisses. This was the two of them grieving. They were more a conduit for each other than anything else. Such intensity couldn’t last long, however, and it seemed as if only moments had passed when Aramis felt Andre clench around him and say, “Oh, God, Aramis, I’m…” and the sentence remained unfinished as Andre gasped through his orgasm. Aramis noted that neither he nor Andre had touched the younger man’s prick, now covered with come, and that thought triggered his own orgasm. He finished his thrust deep into Andre and held himself there, spilling inside him. It was glorious, and seemed, in contrast to the encounter itself, to last forever.

 

When he was finally spent, breathing hard and his heart racing, Aramis looked at Andre and saw the same state on the younger man’s face. “So good, “ Andre mumbled. Aramis felt himself preen a bit and maneuvered himself from the vee of Andre’s legs.

 

“It was _very_ good,” he murmured. “Sleep. Rest.” And heal, he thought, but didn’t say it.


End file.
